Working Out
by Phoenix Cubed
Summary: A quiet take on the less seen side of Quatre. The Arab is taking a time out to exercise his body and reflect when a visitor arrives on the scene. Takes place after Endless Waltz. 3x4. Slightly sappy in the end.


Title: Working Out  
Author: Phoenix Cubed  
Feedback: Oh please. phoenix_cubed@hotmail.com  
Pairings: Subtle 3x4  
Warnings: None really.  
Standard Disclaimers apply.  
  
This is a piece I developed a while back when thinking about the   
mental workings of the pilots, and what they were like behind the   
scenes. Quatre was a logical way for me to go, because he has such   
interesting character contrast.   
  
That, and I think he and Trowa are simply the *cutest* couple. ^.^;  
  
  
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*  
  
Everyone was gone for the day. There was not an echo of a soul to  
disrupt his exercise. With a satisfied smile, he added an extra   
weight to his kick, sending the punching bag reeling into the wall.   
Quatre watched as it hit the blockade and spun wildly back to him,   
the point of contact still plainly visible. For a moment the blonde   
boy merely watched the erratic swing of the person sized potato sack   
on a rope, fascinated by its inexplicable twists and turns until it   
finally came to a reluctant rest at the end of a still rotating chain.  
  
Space was growing problems again.  
  
Breathing deeply and covered in a healthy sheen of sweat, Quatre turned   
his head slightly and spat a comet of saliva into a bean tin resting   
near the wall. He stripped off his boxing gloves and walked away from   
the punching stand, not bothering to watch his liquid projectile score   
a hole in one.  
  
The eastern business associates had been bringing him problems that he   
didn't want to deal with. Colony businesses were going under, resource   
satellites were drying up and drifting away, and the last remnants of   
the extremely right winged Barton faction were still popping out of   
their gopher holes, causing more headaches than he had pills to deal   
with.  
  
Quatre stripped off his thin white exercise Tee, now nearly see-through   
with sweat, and dropped it on the floor just out of the way. He went   
down on bent knee and began to re-lace his sneakers, his white knuckles   
pulling the laces tighter and tighter. He double knotted the rabbit ears   
and switched feet. The new, shining white laces flexed and stretched   
easily under his fingers, daring the muscles in his fingers to pull them   
to the breaking point, as he had done yesterday with the old laces.  
  
Duo and Heero had been gone for three weeks, running about the earth and   
various colonies, trying to track down the troublemakers that had been   
hassling the Vice Foreign Minister. Relena was a good diplomat, but she   
had been at the end of her own rope when she had called a month back,   
asking for advice. The former Peacecraft was true nobility: too stubborn   
to right out ask for help, too much of a 'for the people' socialite not   
to appeal to others for assistance. Quatre, thankfully, wasn't quite nobility,   
and had tracked down the mismatched pair and recruited their services.  
  
The Arabian stood and carefully stretched out his calf muscles, allowing them   
to cord under the strain. The slight pain felt almost good. He loosened his   
arms a bit before taking in a deep breath and stepping on to the track for a   
jog. Quatre wasn't the prime specimen Heero was thought to be, but still, he   
was a top ranked terrorist and Gundam pilot, trained by the best in both mental   
and physical exercise. His wiry, finely toned body worked in perfect unison as   
he rounded the small track oval. A perfectly designed combination of shoe soles   
and the pads of his own feet cushioned every pounding impact and sent him springing   
for the next stride. His arms and legs swung together in a well-proportioned gait,   
eating up the ground with an ever-increasing speed. Faster and faster he forced   
himself around the track until his lungs screamed for rest and his body begged   
for oxygen.  
  
Wufei had sent a message to him earlier that week, care of Preventer mail. Letting   
Sally Po convince him to join the small organization had been a very smart choice   
on Wufei's part. The cheeky Chinese woman kept Wufei on his toes. Quatre had been   
hoping the letter would have been good news, like a wedding announcement, but it   
had been far from it. Wufei had written to inform Quatre that he'd been assigned   
to the resource pirating cases. For this, the blonde was very thankful. These were   
incidents that hit close to home, and complete in-depth investigations would be   
necessary to bring the case to a close. However, the findings of these investigations   
would no doubt spring some very interesting questions from the bloodhounds sniffing   
about. Mainly about Quatre's own private record. There were certain things that the   
Winner heir would prefer kept quiet, and as a boy in the same boat, Wufei would   
know what to avoid.  
  
Quatre's lungs could take no more, and the boy ground to a halt but kept his protesting   
legs moving. At a tortoise's speed he looped about the track. Once. Twice. Once more.   
His pale torso moved up and down in a steady rhythm as his lungs expanded and collapsed   
in appreciation of the life giving gas that was pumped through the colony air system.   
The boy could feel his heart beating solidly against his chest wall, testing the physical   
boundaries of which it was confined to. Though every now and then it would give an extra   
hard thump of protest. Quatre wiped off the sweat that was dripping erratically into his   
sea green eyes and ignored the organ's piped protests.  
  
Trowa was still on the circus ring, and could be expected to stay with the traveling   
caravan for the rest of the season. Catherine, of all people, had sent a holiday   
greeting card and apologized about the little news that Quatre ever received. It seemed   
that the circus was short on help, and that Trowa was busy filling in the empty   
positions. Though grateful for the one-way chat, Quatre wondered why the girl had   
bothered. It almost seemed as if she had been apologizing for her brother. There   
was no reason to apologize. It wasn't as if he'd been expecting a letter in the first   
place and wouldn't have received one if she hadn't written. Trowa hardly bothered to   
talk, much less write letters.  
  
His hand suddenly swung out and hit the punching bag as he passed it by on   
the track. Clouds of dust erupted from the bag in a sorry retaliation for   
the pain Quatre had unexpectedly caused it. The boy ignored the object's silent   
screams and began pummeling the bag with his bare fists, backing it against   
the wall and slamming into it with a sudden rush of sporadic anger. In one final,   
desperate attempt to escape its maddened attacker, the bag slid to the left in   
a swift fluid motion. Surprised, Quatre watched his fist fly past the elusive   
bag and connect with the wall with a spine tingling crunch.  
  
Father always seemed to be disappointed in him. Disappointed in his size,   
dissatisfied about his upbringing, disapproving of his non-pacifist ideals,   
disgusted with this slow growth and lack of need to find a wife and produce   
another brilliant Winner heir. Quatre could never seem to do anything right   
in his father's eyes. But father had always seemed a bit naïve in Quatre's.   
Iria once said that it was like that for all the Winner children growing up.   
That it took time and fights to gain an understanding of the mind of the desert   
master-to find a place in the ever present but rarely seen love and respect   
within the expansive family. But Quatre would never know, because father had   
left, leaving him only time and unresolved disputes to toy with his thoughts   
and haunt his still forming judgments.  
  
Blood began to flower on the spotless, white painted walls of the gym. Quatre   
watched in fascination as the split skin over his knuckle disappeared under a   
sudden onrush of crimson liquid. The stuff of life flowed over his hand and   
trailed down his wrist to cascade onto the floor and pool in hot, wet splashes.   
His turquoise irises shimmered in fascination as he rotated his wrist to better   
watch the blood fall. But instead the path of the liquid changed and began to   
candy stripe down his skin, dripping in erratic ebbs here and there about his   
forearm. Quatre sighed in defeat; nothing seemed to be going his way.  
  
A voice tsk-ed reproachfully behind him, "no shirt to keep the cold out and no   
bandage to keep the blood in. Rashid would not be pleased."  
  
Startled, Quatre whipped about to face the unexpected new comer, inadvertently   
sending flecks of blood flying through the air as his adrenaline charged instincts  
brought his fists up into a defensive position. The Maguanocs had promised him an   
empty building and time to himself. This was a rare event that Quatre did not want   
interrupted by some half-assed would be business partner who thought he was being   
cute by sneaking up on the boy during his supposed personal time.  
  
But when Quatre saw the owner of the voice, he changed his mind immediately.   
  
"Trowa," he said quietly, letting the surprise seep into voice. "I thought you were   
at the circus."  
  
"I was." Trowa walked forward quietly, the gym first aid kid in his left hand. "Let   
me see your hand."  
  
Hastily Quatre tried to hide his bloody deed behind his back. "Don't worry about it.   
Its fine."  
  
Trowa brought up his arm and slowly extended his long, slender fingers in a graceful   
gesture. "Give me your hand, Quatre."  
  
Quatre sighed in inevitable defeat and relinquished the offending limb into the grass-eyed   
youth's care. Trowa settled on the hard rubber floor, bringing his prospective patient   
down with him.  
  
"You shouldn't fight with walls, you know," Trowa said softly, taking out a soft white   
cloth from the kit and cleaning off the other boy's hand. "They tend to win."  
  
Quatre managed a crooked half smile, "I thought that's what a Gundam pilot did-fight  
losing battles."  
  
Trowa took out a fresh towel and dabbed it with a disinfectant; "we don't pilot   
Gundams anymore."  
  
"Have you ever heard the expression, 'you can take the king from the throne, but   
you can't take the throne from the king?'  
  
"No." Came the answer.  
  
"Oh," the blonde sighed at the usual short reply and decided to change the subject.   
"So why the visit, Trowa. Your sister wrote to say how busy you were and how short-  
handed the circus had become. The Maguanoc Corps was all ready to enlist in the   
circus to help you."  
  
Trowa lifted a compress off Quatre's wound and inspected it with a critical eye.   
Replacing the compress, he dug into the first aid kit until he found a needle and   
thread. "Cathy told me that if I didn't take a break and give her a rest that she'd   
start missing on purpose." Trowa paused and raised a slender eyebrow to look at the   
boy in front of him, his one visible eye dancing slightly with the humor of his   
statement. "I decided a vacation wasn't a bad idea-she was sharpening her knives   
when I left."  
  
Quatre managed a real smile and a low chuckle. "Never question a female who can   
split hairs three ways at eighty paces."  
  
"That would be the philosophy, yes."  
  
The gym was silent for a while as Trowa measured out and threaded the small needle.   
He poured a small amount more of alcohol on the wound and instructed Quatre to   
relax his hand. To his credit, the Winner hardly flinched as the needle began working   
its way in and out of folds of Quatre's skin. The pain wasn't great, but Quatre   
wanted some distraction from the tiny metal object.  
  
"Trowa?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Why-why did you come back here? It's not much of a vacation spot."  
  
The needle hesitated ever so slightly before dipping back into its rhythm. "There   
was no where else I wanted to be, I suppose."  
  
"Oh." Quatre couldn't think of anything to say to this, so he said nothing.  
  
The silver sliver finished its deed and Trowa made a final knot before cutting   
the thread. "That should do it," he said, "just don't pick any fights with walls   
for a while."  
  
Quatre nodded and stood stiffly on his feet. As Trowa packed the kit Quatre fetched   
his previously discarded T-shirt and walked over to the drying blood on the wall   
and floor. For a moment he considered using it to wipe up the traces of his act.   
It felt wrong for him to leave behind such blatant signs of his presence. Heero   
would definitely disapprove. With a sigh, the blonde wrapped the shirt around   
his good hand and moved to clean the unsightly mess.  
  
A force tugged on the trailing ends of the makeshift rag. Surprised, Quatre kept   
hold of the T-shirt, but turned around to blink owlishly at his antagonist.   
"Something wrong?"  
  
Trowa shook his head; almost amused by the look his friend was giving him. He   
continued to pull on the shirt, towing Quatre away from the stain on the wall.   
With a deft flick of his wrist, he twisted the fabric and bundled it into his   
own hand. Quatre relinquished the shirt and stopped walking, slightly annoyed   
with the other boy. "Trowa, what-"  
  
But Trowa managed to surprise the other into silence when he reached up and began   
to wipe off the stray blood flecks from Quatre's own cheeks. "Clean up the messes   
that are worth cleaning," he said.  
  
"But-"  
  
"Quatre," Trowa cut him off, wiping away a particularly long streak that ran from   
the blonde's collarbone to the middle of his neck, "Sandrock told you goodbye long   
ago, its time for you to do the same."  
  
Quatre opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it again. Dropping his head,   
he turned away from his friend. "You make it sound so easy," his voice accented   
by anger to hide the surprise he received from Trowa's statement.   
  
"Why is it that everything we do in life has to be so difficult, Quatre? Don't you   
think its time to settle down and let go the past? Following your needs instead   
of the people's. Do what you want to do instead of what someone else wants?"  
  
Feeling slightly guilty from his earlier comment, Quatre let out a long breath of   
air and dropped his head, "I don't think I know how to do that, Trowa. Not even   
where to start."  
  
"Try winning a battle, for once."  
  
The blonde looked up at the long banged youth, fixing him with a level stare. Then,   
with out a warning, Quatre's snaked out and snatched the shirt from Trowa's hands,   
"like this?" he grinned, twisting the towel and snapping it rapidly in Trowa's face,   
allowing it to come within millimeters of his nose.  
  
Trowa, who was used to the deadly swish of knives, blinked and jerked back slightly   
at the Arab's sudden advance. Quatre's grin grew wider, "I win."  
  
"Take it easy there," warned Trowa, "or I'll tell the wall on you."  
  
Quatre laughed and threw the shirt at the other boy. "Its good to see you again, Trowa."  
  
The boy nodded, "yes," he agreed, "it is."  
  
The gym went silent again as Quatre relaxed and slowly looked about the track. His   
eyes drifted to the battered punching bag. It hung perfectly still in the center of i  
ts axis. Even the chain was still from its usual rotation. Quatre smiled. Space   
was calming down.  
  
"How about some tea, Trowa." Quatre turned to his friend, " to start your vacation off."  
  
A soft emotion flickered through deep green eyes. "I'd like that."  
  
Quatre nodded, "so would I."  
  
Quatre led the way from the gym, knowing Trowa would be right behind him. The grass-  
eyed youth gave one last look around the gym before tossing the blood and sweat   
stained T into the corner. He turned off the lights and shut the door tightly   
behind the two of them. With a firm nod of resolution, he caught up to Quatre,   
and together they walked side by side down the long locker hallway.  
  
  
* Fine *  
  
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*  
  
Comments are always nice. Please?   
  



End file.
